Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
She doesn’t blanch or react in any way, but slow and fuckin’ steady, those lips of hers curve to one side. “What you mean to say is you can’t afford to fix her up.” She cocks her head, speaking with mocking innocence. “Shame.”
Yep. Piranha.
I’d let her teeth sink into me, and then I’d bite her spoiled ass back. Literally. And harder.
She steps in closer, waiting for a reaction from me she won’t get, but it doesn’t take her long to realize as much, and her lips part with a wider smile, her tongue peeking between perfectly pearly expensive whites.
And then, on her way past, she shoulder-checks me.
I don’t watch her go because I know she expects me to.
Less than a minute later, she peels out, leaving us in a cloud of burned rubber.
I do spin around then, and Hayze comes to stand beside me, our eyes following the taillights down the dark, supposed-to-be deserted road.
A quick, surprised chuckle escapes him, and he shakes his head. “She thinks she’s slick, don’t she?”
I pull in a deep breath.
She sure as fuck does.
Rocklin
The double doors are pulled open the second my heels hit the final step. The second I’m through and closed inside the entryway, the outside light is cut off. Only once the sensors register the entrance has been sealed do the automatic doors five feet ahead disappear into the wall.
As I step into the Distinction room, the room where several sets of eyes you can’t see, see you and decide which door ahead is to be opened for you, I’m instantly sealed inside what I like to call our lovely little lockbox. Of course, as quickly as the one at my back clicks closed, my team grants my entrance.
The moment my heels click against the white-and-gold marble flooring, Damiano slips from the security room, falling in line beside me. He’s as silent as his steps, and my gaze slides his way, the two of us continuing down the hall, passing and ignoring each set of black double doors along the way. We pause in front of the Greyson suite, the largest one in the place, built and designed specifically for me and my girls, Bronx and Delta. It’s located at the end of the hall, where the space splits into a T, the crossing point of the hundred-yard catwalk, as Delta calls it.
It’s also the grandest of entrances, the archway carved and crafted from pure white, rose, and standard-colored gold. The three-dimensional serpents weave along thorny vines, their mouths open wide, fangs sinking into broadly bloomed roses, each a soft, delicate shade of pink akin to a ballet slipper. Dead in the center of the flowers, where the pit should be, a diamond sits instead. Rather than leaves framing the stems, they’re woven with the illusion of lace, lace that falls into harsh points at the ends and plays like stony icicles protecting the archway. Weapons in disguise, just in case.
It’s a tether of slyness, Every aspect a representation that only me and the girls can piece together. As was intended.
The door clicks as I step before it and Damiano stands silently at my side, his jaw flexing when I continue past him without a word. I know he’ll follow before I hear him lock us inside together.
I go straight for the bar in the far-left corner, tossing my bag on top of it before moving to the large window to its right. The Enterprise is buzzing tonight, a full house expected. Half are people from our world—some eager for the show, some waiting for the business conversations that will follow it. The other half of tonight’s guest list consists of those we don’t want here but to whom we are forced to extend invites to “keep the peace.” They show up from sheer intrigue, shocked they were “lucky enough” to snag tickets to such a “prestigious” event. Gag me.
The cocktail area in the gardens below is lively, men and women twice my age drinking the night away as they wait for my girl Delta DeLeon to take her throne—the white leather and suede bench seat of a custom Steinway & Sons piano.
“Is Delta not here yet?” Damiano asks.
“I was told she and the boys arrived a half hour ago but would be … releasing some tension in the DeLeon suite.”
“Good.” His shadow grows closer, falling over me from behind, and his palms lift, closing over my forearms. “Everything all right?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
I spin to face him, only then realizing he’s changed from his scholar’s uniform, now draped in the finest of black suits, the cuff links at his wrists rivaling the cost of a so-called Ivy League tuition, his golden, secret Greyson Society pin shining proudly along the left trim of his jacket. His blond hair shines under the light of the chandelier and, as always, is swept back from his face in a modern pompadour, making his brown eyes, the same color of watered-down espresso, stand out.